


Germination

by lobst_r



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Abortion, Anger Management, F/M, Heartbreak, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Masturbation, Multi, Multiple Partners, Open Relationships, POV Lis, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-30 10:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13949196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobst_r/pseuds/lobst_r
Summary: „Yeah, yeah. Well, Perlman’s son, he’s auditioning in the city next month.“„For Juilliard? Good luck with that.“„Elio’ll get in.“ Oliver said with conviction, a dismissive lilt to his voice that had always put her off. „I’ve heard him play last summer.“„Whatever you say,“ she said, suddenly angry with him.*1984 never did see that spring wedding happen - Lis is stuck in between work, two sets of nagging parents and her absent-minded fiancé buried six feet under his fucking papers. She then meets Elio Perlman.





	1. The Eighth Try

Lis received the letter at the tail end of September, a dreary cool morning that had seen her rounding Hudson River Park twice during her morning run and nearly spraining her ankle. One look at the spindly handwriting told her that Oliver was back in the country, still not using a telephone like normal people did, and still utterly infuriating with his pretentious brevity. 

 

_Let’s get coffee._ ~~_Parents_ ~~

 

She phoned his place twice before calling his office, gulping down two espressos while getting dressed in a hurry. A harried secretary told her that no, Oliver hadn’t been in yet, while she pulled on stockings and cursed violently when one side ripped at the seams. As always, it bugged the hell out of her - perfect Oliver, nonchalant and gorgeous, saying fluent prayers during his Bar-Mitzvah, giving her the once over with disinterest in his eyes, asleep in her bed with his hair artfully tousled. 

 

Lis was rather bad at concealing her emotions, or so she had always been told. Oliver made her blood boil over with anger, with lust and with laughter. They had broken up and gotten back together no less than seven times, a lucky number if there ever was one. She would then go back to calling up her former affairs, on-and-off lovers, fucking the living daylights out of them and getting inevitably bored. 

 

„If I were you, I’d have married him years ago. There isn’t going to be anyone more suitable. That’s it. That’s all,“ her mother had told her once while she had just been finishing up college and doing internships left and right, going on casual dates while meeting Oliver for lunch every other week. It had irked her back then, how her narrow-minded, home-bound mother chose her words.   

 

A part inside her, not insignificant at all, feared that she was right and had been all along. 

 

 

*

 

 

They met the next evening, going out for slices of Pizza and a walk around their shared neighborhood. Lis had gone through her drawer of makeup and then decisively put on nothing at all. She felt frizzled with nerves, and angry at herself for being thrown off course so easily. 

 

Oliver looked good - of course he did. Italy had given him the parting gift of a ridiculously smooth tan and a healthy flush across the bridge of his nose. They spoke and caught up with one another, falling into the easy rhythm of lifelong friendship. She told him about her asshole coworkers and lab results that didn’t quite match up, while he went on about his book and issues with translation. 

 

„Italy didn’t impress you much?“

 

„Why? What did I say?“

 

„Well, not much of anything, really - was the food any good, at least?“ 

 

Oliver polished off his second slice, a messy eater if she’d ever seen one, in complete contrast to the neat way he usually did things. He finished chewing and fixed her with a look that she couldn’t quite decipher. 

 

„It was like,“ he took a breath and a gulp of beer, swallowing with a wet click. „It was good.“ The silence hung between them while she waited for him to elaborate and he held his beer and picked at the label, eyes focussed on the middling distance. Lis would later look back on that moment and wonder how she hadn’t detected something off just then. Oliver, her calm and collected, über confident Ollie, remaining close-lipped and distant about something that clearly had touched him. 

 

Instead, they spoke about their parents.

 

As a binding element, it was as good as any: both of them had grown up in conservative Jewish households, with stay at home mothers, authoritative fathers and weekly synagogue congregations. They had met at eight and nine years old, respectively, while attending Beth Israel in West Hartford. Now, at almost twenty-five, Lis was no longer practicing, while Oliver only ever wore his silly necklace. 

 

„It’s amazing, how much power they still have over me,“ she mused, while he gave a low, throaty laugh, full of commiseration. „But they still think we’re dating, so that’s keeping them at bay…“

 

„For now,“ he warned with a raised finger. „Aren’t we dating?“

 

That made her laugh and filled her chest with warmth: „We had broken up before you left for Europe, last time I checked.“   

 

„Ah, I see.“ 

 

She scooted closer to him, and natural like breathing, their lips met in a open-mouthed kiss full of tongue, tasting of pepperoni and cheese. His arm had loped itself around her waist, and she cradled his face closer, rubbing along his stubbled jawline. 

 

„They still want us to get married,“ Oliver said against her lips, and she could tell that his eyes were closed. It made her angry, spiteful even, that their parents could intrude into such a private moment. 

 

„Never mind that,“ she told him, but he had already turned away, shoulders drawn up tight. 

 

 

*

 

 

They started seeing each other more regularly, falling into the easy, practiced pattern of dinner and sex. Sometimes she spent the night, sometimes she didn’t. It occurred to her some time towards mid-October that he was strung-tight, for some reason, harsher while fucking her and more subdued in the afterglow they shared. 

 

Their policy of remaining transparent meant that she knew he was seeing other people on the side, a graduate student from the art history department and a few other loose acquaintances he had met during his time at university. She met up with an old friend and rekindled their affair during a weekend getaway with another one of his pals. She tried a threesome with them for the very first time, and was drunk on the feeling for days after, still surrounded by skin from all sides while she pleasured herself at night. 

 

Oliver asked her to marry him while they were having wine in bed, lazily passing a blunt back and forth and talking in half sentences. He was listening to Bach, of all things, the slow tinkling of the piano a faded sound in the background. They argued over classical music for a while, though both were too stoned for any real heat to enter the conversation. 

 

„Tell me, what is this piece called?“

 

„It’s Bach.“

 

„I know it’s fucking Bach, Oliver,“ she snorted and inhaled, the tip of the blunt glowing a sudden bright orange. Smoke rushed through her lungs and she exhaled with a great, complacent sigh. 

 

„Capriccio on the departure of a beloved brother,“ he said, holding in the smoke and then blowing it straight into her face. 

 

„When did you start caring about Bach?“ 

 

He didn’t answer her question, taking another hit, face tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his modest bachelor pad bedroom. She tapped his nose, straight and long, and kissed the nearest thing to her, which was his elbow. He turned and they looked at each other for a few long moments. 

 

„We should get married,“ he said in a quiet voice, eyes blood-shot with all the weed. Lis didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then found herself nodding. It was a movement that rose deep out of her chest, gripping her tendons and muscles until it all culminated in the two curt nods, downward movements weighed with a sudden comprehension. 

 

Her mother had been right. 

 

 

*

 

 

They took the train to New England together, announcing their engagement just in time for Hanukkah. Both sets of parents were overjoyed, and it was an all around pleasant weekend. Childhood photographs were unearthed from dusty, well kept boxes; summer outings of the two families, Lis and Oliver eating ice cream at the zoo, Lis’ Bat Mitzvah, their high school graduation ceremony.  

 

She woke up to him talking on the phone at seven in the morning, even though they’d had wine and talked well into the small hours of the night. Oliver’s voice was muffled by the closed door, and when she rose to tug him back into bed, she heard him say: „I remember everything.“ 

 

Such a statement struck her as weird, but she flung open the door and sat in his lap while voices exploded through the receiver. He stroked a hand down her thigh and motioned to the telephone, giving her a look with his eyebrows raised. She rolled her eyes in exaggeration and retreated back to bed. It would be another hour before breakfast. She dozed on and off and jerked back away when the bed dipped and Oliver slid back under the covers. 

 

„Were you saying your own name, back there?“ She mumbled, refusing to open her eyes. 

 

Silence. 

 

Oliver’s body was tense when she rolled to curl up against him. „What’s wrong?“ She asked, suddenly wide awake, sensing his distress. His face was a mask of indifference, eyebrows drawn in a tight line. 

 

„Nothing,“ he said, the word so clipped she felt like he had slapped her in the face. 

 

„What. What is your problem?“ 

 

They stared at each other, both suddenly aggravated. Oliver shook his head, once, twice, then again: „There’s no problem.“ 

 

„Obviously,“ she spat at him. The alarm they had set went off in that moment and they got dressed at separate ends of the room, both refusing to speak.  

 

 

*

 

 

Things went back to normal once they went back to New York. 

 

Oliver was offered a three year teaching position at Columbia just before Christmas, and that buoyed them through most of January. Lis contemplated quitting her job at the lab, not because of her impending marriage, but because she was so fed up with her male coworkers and the general working environment. 

 

They fought through most of February. Oliver had been hesitant over moving in together, disinterested in wedding planning, buried in his papers and books, reading about Heraclitus and other long-dead boring Greeks. He seemed absent, and that, most of all, sent Lis straight over the edge. Plates were thrown, shards were picked out from the soles of bare feet, tears were cried and insults were hurled with intent to maim. 

 

They postponed the wedding to May. That was still spring, as far as Oliver was concerned, and he was busy with work. 

 

She opened the door to his place one evening in March, and was greeted by the full blast of crooning pop music. Oliver was stretched out on his leather couch, pants shoved down to his knees, shirt open while his fist moved frantically up and down the length of his cock. His eyes were closed tight and his lips were parted in a silent moan. 

 

„God,“ he gasped, voice catching, while the schmaltzy song went on in what she now recognized as Italian. „God, _fuck,_ “ he moaned again, head thrown back while he came all over his own stomach, the tip of his cock flushed red. 

 

Lis only stood, and watched, heat creeping up between her thighs. Oliver’s breathing had calmed when she finally spoke up: „What is this song, anyways?“ 

 

He jolted upright, falling off the couch and banging his head against the side table, knocking a mug full of tea clean off the surface. Suddenly there was blood everywhere while he cursed and struggled to pull up his pants and she laughed and laughed while hurrying to the kitchen and fetching paper towels. 

 

„How long were you standing there?“ He had a stormy look on his face, fumbling to close his pants while blood streamed down the side of his face. „What the _fuck_ , Lis.“  

 

„I’m sorry, oh God, look at you. Not long, not long at all - just saw you knock one out!“ She burst out laughing again, crouching down to inspect the side of his head. „This is going to need stitches, come on, up.“ 

 

They took a cab to the ER and got Oliver patched up, then got Chinese takeout and walked home against the wan setting sun. „Samuel Perlman, the man I stayed with last summer, he wrote to me.“

 

„That’s nice. Wait, you’re walking too fast, did you not hear the nurse? You lost a lot of blood, young man.“ 

 

„Yeah, yeah. Well, Perlman’s son, he’s auditioning in the city next month.“

 

„For Juilliard? Good luck with that.“ 

 

„Elio’ll get in.“ Oliver said with conviction, a dismissive lilt to his voice that had always put her off. „I’ve heard him play last summer.“ 

 

„Whatever you say,“ she said, suddenly angry with him. She tugged her hand from his, and hurried a few steps ahead. She had never been overly interested in the fine arts, with a head for numbers and logical thinking. Everything was so muddy when it came to art, music, literature. She enjoyed reading, but not to Oliver’s level of obsession. It irked her, at times, that he managed to seem so well versed. 

 

„Lis,“ he called for her. „Hey, wait up. I’m kind of tired, do you mind? I’d rather sleep alone tonight.“ 

 

„Oliver.“ They stood and faced each other on the sidewalk, the blueish darkness of evening settling over them both. „Why the hell did you ask me to marry you?“ 

 

She waited for him to speak, aggression rising inside her, threatening to boil over. His features remained placid, and for a second she wanted to scratch open his gorgeous face, leave bloody streaks down his smooth-shaven cheeks and scar him for good. „Well, don’t hold back on my account, Professor, go ahead and rest up. I’m not bothering you any longer this fine evening.“ 

 

She turned and left, and he didn’t stop her. 

 

 

*

 

 

They postponed the wedding again, this time indefinitely. 

 

Stacks of invitations were left blank and unsent, post stamps already glued to the heavy, expensive envelopes. April came and went, and Lis was offered a better position at a research facility and promptly quit her job. The new work kept her up and busy, and bleached her thoughts of Oliver and his hated silence. 

 

Both her mother and Oliver’s called repeatedly, voices full of worry, the latter bursting out into tears. It put an awful weight on her chest and made falling asleep without wine infinitely harder. She started seeing her old affair again, and then took up contact with his pal as well, sleeping with them separately. 

 

She saw him by pure chance, having coffee in Manhattan. It struck her suddenly that she had missed him, and on a whim she pushed open the door of the café and approached his table. He had grown out his beard a bit, and strangely enough he was wearing his best jacket, a navy blue one with stiff shoulders. 

 

„Lis,“ he said in greeting. A strange moment passed until she bent down to kiss him, and he kissed her back, a quick pucker of the lips. Then she registered the person sitting across from Oliver, a young man. No, barely - it was boy, with dark curls falling into his face and wide, blue eyes that stared at her unblinkingly. 

 

„Elisabeth, a pleasure.“ 

 

„Elio, the pleasure is all mine.“ 

 

It took her a good minute to place the name. She sat down and had coffee with them, talking about the weather and Elio’s entrance exam and audition, which he had apparently both passed with flying colors. The boy spoke without any trace of an accent, the only thing that gave him away at times was his cadence, the way he used phrases as if out of direct translation, and the way he spoke of his _Maman_ and his _Papá_. 

 

Lis listened to them talk and watched Oliver. He was sitting up straight, posture rigid, hands cautiously folded in his lap. His eyes followed the boy’s gestures, mapped the ups and downs of his animated brows. He seemed tense, and utterly captivated all at the same time. 

 

„Will I see you tonight?“ She asked before leaving them to their art talk, searching for Oliver’s eyes. Something inside her burned with an urgency to hold him again, after a month of near silence. 

 

„Yes, of course.“ 

 

It surprised her, but he promised to come by later that evening. Elio was all pleasant manners, shaking her hand and smiling. Another privileged child of the upper class, bred into refinement. She lit up a smoke outside the café and watched from the corner of her eye. Oliver was still speaking to the Professor’s son, but now he had leaned in closer, dipping his head down. 

 

The boy was shaking his head violently, curls flying wild.

 

 

*

 

 

Oliver didn’t come by that evening. Lis called his place a few times, and then gave up, crying herself to sleep with a pillow over her head after smoking three joints. 

 

She still had work in the morning. 

 


	2. A Heap of Cells

 

Lis ran into Oliver’s art history graduate affair Pauline at the beginning of June. The weather was remarkably awful for the time of year and they were both hiding beneath the awning of a closed tattoo parlor, waiting for the sudden afternoon rainfall to cease. They spoke briefly, both too annoyed with the day to become awkward. 

 

„Olli has stopped answering my letters,“ Pauline said into her hideous yellow summer scarf. „He’s been off, to say the least.“

 

„You _answer_ his letters?“ 

 

„Why, what’s wrong with that?“

 

„Oh, nothing, nothing. Maybe he’s lost interest? He’s a cold one, you know.“ 

 

She thought about their chance encounter later that night, after another nerve wrecking phone call with her still mother-in-law to be. Oliver had spoken to her a few times, they’d even met up and had sex, though those occasions seemed to be far and few in between these days. She had three more glasses of Bordeaux and paced the length of her apartment before finally giving in and dialing his number. 

 

„Why don’t you come over? I’ve made pasta,“ he said, even though it was almost ten in the evening on a week night. Lis grabbed the half bottle of red that was still left and cycled the few blocks one-handed. 

 

It turned out that Oliver, the culinary heathen and lover of hotdogs, had made _fresh_ pasta with basil pesto and garlic. They ended up having sex on the couch, with her on all fours and his long body draped over her back. It was a messy, sweaty affair, and with their stomachs full, they dozed until midnight before showering together. 

 

„Do you remember Elio Perlman?“

 

„Yeah, of course. The Professor’s son.“ 

 

„Well, the Paris Conservatory has accepted him.“

 

Lis nudged Oliver out of the way to get under the shower head, rubbing both hands across her face and washing the shampoo suds out of her hair before reacting: „Well. That’s wonderful news, isn’t it?“

 

„Yeah, sure. It is.“ 

 

She stepped out of the shower, pulling aside the curtain, dripping with water and flushed with the heat. A quick look told her that Oliver was still indulging himself, head tipped back, arms rubbing along his torso in motions that seemed halfhearted, at best. There was a certain downturn to the corners of his mouth that told her he was miserable - more so than he would ever let on or admit. 

 

She quickly dried off and padded back into his living room, suddenly uneasy with the small, humid space. Oliver’s apartment had barely changed over the last three years, bookshelf upon bookshelf with barely an empty wall, the old leather couch that had just seen some action and his antique wooden desk, a present from his parents. It was mostly covered in books and papers, the organized chaos only familiar to its owner.

 

Lis strayed closer while getting dressed in an oversized, ratty T-Shirt, eyes skipping over the book titles ( _First century cynicism, Cosmic Fragments, Metamorphosis, Hippocrates_ ) before landing on a crumbled piece of paper. 

 

_— taught me a few recipes, as I’ll be going away for university soon. She fears I shall starve on my own, which is closer to the truth than I’m willing to admit. Father has encouraged me to apply for the Conservatoire de Paris, and just yesterday I’ve received an admittance letter. I played the Transcendental Études,_ ~~_and afterwards I wanted to play you Liebestraum over the phone. I almost called_ ~~ _~~.~~ It was that or Shostakovich. _

 

~~_I dreamed of you_ ~~

 

_I don’t know why I keep crossing out the words, as you will be reading them anyways. I don’t have the exact recipe at hand, but you’ll be needing fresh basil and Parmigiano, and Olive oil, of course. I think —_

 

 

*

 

 

Lis didn’t attempt to contact Oliver for the rest of the month. 

 

She scourged her mind of unpleasant things, running miles every morning, relishing the burn in her knees and thighs. In between, she found herself listening to Liszt at the record shop, skipping tracks until _Liebestraum_. It was an unbearably beautiful piano piece, achingly sweet and saturated with feelings too grandiose to verbalize. She ended up purchasing it. 

 

She knew that she had crossed a line by reading the letter. But part of her was grateful for it - the knowledge that kept her sane, that fell into place with the last grueling six months. It felt better to have closure, even as she sometimes felt unsure how to fake a smile in the privacy of her own bathroom. As polyamorous as they had been all these years, Lis had never once feared for their relationship. Sex was sex was sex, and they had known each other too long to be reduced to just that. 

 

She hadn’t even been sure whether their marriage would have been a monogamous one, or if they’d have attempted to try at all. 

 

But this. The letter. It all felt heartbreakingly different. 

 

She would catch herself having uncharitable thoughts about Oliver and his pretty Italian boy, nasty thoughts that often veered towards the homophobic. She fretted over their age difference, over the AIDS crisis, over the awful, scrawly, obviously _immature_ hand the letter had been written in. She tried to recall Elio Perlman’s exact features - had he been very delicate? Or just thin? Was there a bump on the bridge of his nose?

 

Lis went on vacation for two weeks in July with a good friend from college. They traveled to Cancun and laid on the beach sipping cocktails before taking the bus to Tulum, where they begrudgingly looked at some rather well-preserved Mayan ruins and sat on the beach some more. 

 

She started puking out her guts upon returning to New York and put it down to food poisoning, bad Mexican drinking water, or the strains of fast traveling. Work continued on as usual, and she started a brief flirtation with one of her colleagues, a guy named Chad, though they both decided it wasn’t a good idea after a few days of heated looks during coffee brakes.

 

 

*

 

 

„Elisabeth, I spoke to Esther on the phone last week. She hasn’t been able to reach Oliver, and God, whatever it is that has been going on between the two of you - honey, I’m sure you can fix it. Your father said -“

 

„I haven’t spoken to him in a while, mom, I don’t -“

 

„I’m worried. I have to be honest with you sweetie, I’m really worried. You’re not getting any younger, we aren’t either, and I’m sure whatever the rift is between you two -“

 

„God, mother, can you listen to me for just -“

 

„I think you’re too headstrong, I have to be honest with you, if only you would back down a little, Oliver’s very proud, he’s always been a proud boy, it’s no good -“

 

„Why _the hell_ is it that you folks all call me? Huh? Why don’t you go nag on him? Why do I have to deal with this fucking mess -“

 

„Elisabeth! My, is that the way you speak to your -“

 

 

*

 

 

The nausea got the better of her in mid-August, and struck with the lightning bolt of a sudden, painful realization, she went to the pharmacists and bought two pregnancy tests. She spent the required waiting time pouring herself glasses of leftover white wine and staring uncomprehendingly out the window. 

 

Of course she was fucking pregnant. 

 

She rounded up the possible candidates in her head and came to the conclusion that she hadn’t slept with anyone since that fateful day in June. Her gynecologist confirmed it later that week - she was approximately two and a half months along. It shocked her more than anything, that she hadn’t had sex with anyone for such a stretch of time, because of Oliver and their botched up engagement. 

 

She startled awake that night and hiccuped until the first sob broke out. It took her a few long minutes soaking in the bathtub to realize that she was crying out of relief. Abortion was blessedly legal in New York, and she wasn’t past the 24 week mark yet. She still had a little time to gather herself and contact Oliver with all the dignity she could muster. 

 

 

*

 

 

It took her a few weeks, but the beginning of the semester pushed her into action. She bought a six pack of beer, rolled up a joint that she tucked behind her ear and cycled to Oliver’s place at seven o’clock on a Thursday evening. Instead of ringing at the door she simply used the spare key she still had, entering the apartment with her heart thundering inside her ears. 

 

It took her a minute to place the voices. 

 

The beers were sweating under her arm and the sun was a brilliant orange, ushering in the hues of autumn. Oliver was in his bedroom, changing into a light blue summer shirt, laughing low in his throat. It was such a happy sound coming from him that she felt briefly disoriented. Then the strum of a guitar could be heard, and taking a few light steps forward she could see the Professor’s son, crouched on the bed topless. He was plucking at the guitar strings with a careless lack of regard, his eyes fixed on Oliver moving back and forth in the cramped space. 

 

„I think you should try and read more things outside your antiquity bubble, it would do you good. Did you read Fanon?“

 

„Of course I read Fanon, you goose.“

 

„How about socialist writers? Did you bother to read -“

 

The sentence ended in a tackle and excited laughter. Elio was yelling in Italian and trying to tickle Oliver beneath his armpits halfheartedly, toppling over until they were a tangle of limbs and tanned skin. It occurred to Lis that they were kissing, and with another few steps forward it was confirmed: Oliver had bracketed the boy’s face between his palms, peppering kisses down his nose, all over his face. She was almost standing in the doorway, and still they hadn’t noticed her. 

 

„You could learn Italian by reading Gramsci, I would teach you,“ the boy kept on saying, though he sounded rather breathless. „Papá will send me the newest edition of the Prison Notes.“ 

 

„Elio, Elio, Elio, stop talking, we’ll do whatever you want, alright?“ Oliver was touching their noses together, fondness bleeding out of his voice, grinding down his hips in little movements that made the boy’s breath hitch. She had never seen him so unguarded, not once in their shared life. 

 

It could’ve gone on like that, she could’ve stood and watched them in their little world, their lovemaking, their ceaseless intellectual talk. But somehow a part inside of her decided to get noticed, and she set down the six pack of beer with a clink of the bottles. Her hands felt disgustingly clammy. 

 

They both turned to look at her, like a parody of surprise. 

 

Oliver’s face had instantly hardened into the mask so familiar to her now. Anger suddenly bubbled up inside her chest, an emotion so mundane and empowering that she seized it without thinking twice, exhilaration coursing through her veins as she stared at the two of them in bed, so heart-wrenchingly, obviously in love with one another. „So, I’ve suspected that our engagement was off. Turns out my instincts are spot on.“ 

 

„Lis…“ Oliver had straightened himself, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

 

„Oh, don’t Lis me, you sonofabitch, at least have the decency to -“

 

„Stop, not now! Alright?“

 

She took another step forward, standing in the room now, feeling like a villain in a film with the way she was suddenly laughing: „You keep avoiding me, postponing the fucking spring wedding we never planned, you don’t answer the fucking phone or fucking Pauline’s letters!“ 

 

„I said not now, Lis!“ He sounded like his father, she thought nonsensically and answered by screaming all the louder: „I’ve been dealing with your goddamned parents since April, you ungrateful fucker! Your mother calls me every week, asking me about us playing house and going to synagogue - “

 

„I’ll go,“ someone said, and it took her a second to realize it was Elio, the Professor’s son, barely even legal, a boy. He looked frightfully young and exceedingly lovely, long-limbed and freckled, a tremble in his full lips. 

 

„You don’t have to go, I’ll be going. Look, I brought you guys beer,“ Lis said to him, faking a grimaced smile. She gave the bottles a hefty kick and watched one of them shatter and burst open, leaking white foam on the carpet, before leaving the apartment sure-footed, heaving in delighted breaths. 

 

She hadn’t felt so alive in a good while. 

 

 

*

 

 

It occurred to her that she hadn’t told Oliver about the heap of cells growing inside her abdomen later that night, just before falling asleep. It was barely nine in the evening, but she was beyond exhausted and drifted into sleep without even smoking the joint she had rolled up earlier that day. 

 

The doorbell rang around midnight, and she stumbled to answer with bleary eyes. Oliver pushed past her, expression stormy, shoulders drawn up and rigid: „I want my keys back, I can’t have you bursting in like that again.“ 

 

She stood facing him, wearing nothing but an old T-Shirt, suddenly violently ashamed. She motioned towards his backup keys on the living room counter, and felt tears welling up out of nowhere. This was as good a time as any other: „Oliver, I’m pregnant, alright? I came to tell you today. That’s all.“ 

 

Both of them just breathed for a while. 

 

Then Oliver sat down on the couch with his face in his hands. It took him ages until he looked up at her again, eyes red-rimmed. There were tear tracks on his cheeks which he wiped at futilely. „God, Lis, I..“ 

 

„I’m getting an abortion soon. Not past the 24 week mark yet, thank God.“ 

 

„What?“ He was gazing at her, as if she had just spoken to him in a foreign language. „But, why?“ 

 

„Are you seriously asking me that question? _Why?_ Look at the two of us! Who would look after the brat, your mother?“ 

 

He stood suddenly, and embraced her with a ferocity that had the air rushing out of her lungs. It was so familiar, so _right_ , that she simply let him and sighed. They made love on her couch that night, slow and intimate, every inch of them touching. He mumbled apologies into her hair, again and again, until she told him „enough“. 

 

And just like that, he was back in her life again.  

 


	3. The Hardships

Lis was three and a half months pregnant and quickly losing her mind when the cold broke over New York, the sudden drop of temperature jumpstarting a wave of flu. She, too, called in sick and hid in her bed for most of the week, blocking out the grey blur that had become the outside world. 

 

Oliver came over and checked on her almost daily, cooking instant broth on her stove and feeding her slices of carrots for the added vitamins. He was pleasant enough, chatting about this and that, the faculty members he disliked, the students that asked the same predictable questions and gave the same mind-numbingly boring answers. 

 

They snuggled and whispered sweet nothings to each other, laughed about the usual things, funny or not. It calmed her and made something deep inside her itch viciously, all at the same time. It was as if nothing had transpired, as if the last months had evaporated, and along with them Elio Perlman and his rosy-cheeked smile. She didn’t dare ask, stuck in a state of limbo where they were unnaturally agreeable to one another and kept all grievances out of sight. Looking back, she found that no other period of their relationship had managed to unnerve her as much. 

 

It all came to a halt when he found a bottle of Sauvignon standing innocuously on the bedside table, cork still firmly lodged. All hell broke loose, and they didn’t speak for three days, treating each other with oppressive silence. Lis drank the bottle all in one evening, thumbing through October’s bestselling Forsyth novel, not reading even a single word. 

 

„I’m getting the abortion, Oliver,“ she told him on the fourth day over the phone. She was at work still, lighting up a smoke and sipping lukewarm coke from a dented can in the break room. 

 

„Elisabeth,“ he sighed, sounding once again like his father. „We should talk about this in person.“ 

 

„You think I haven’t made up my mind?“ 

 

„Let’s meet after work, alright? I’ll fix us something.“ 

 

„Let’s not.“ 

 

He came around anyway, pounding on her door, only to find that Lis had invited not one, two, but three colleagues over. They were all in hysterics over something or other, gulping down beer with the pizza they had ordered. He sat down with them for an hour after being introduced as Elisabeth’s fiancé and left just after eight, without having a single bite of food.

 

They fought again, but at least that was better than the disgusting make-pretend happiness. 

 

 

*

 

 

As life would have it, she ran into Elio Perlman a week before Hanukkah. They were both out with groups of friends and caught each other’s eye across the crowded bar within minutes. Lis had four shots of Tequila before approaching him, licking the salt off the back of her own hand, savoring the bitter taste, the burn of it. 

 

„How are you?“

 

„Fine, fine, it’s gotten rather cold, hasn’t it?“

 

„Oh, yes, of course. Your first New York City winter!“ 

 

Elio’s friends were all round-cheeked and bushy-tailed like him, young students with the distinguished air only the cultured portion of the upper-middle class managed to carry so well. He excused himself for a minute before joining her at the bar, slouching gracefully so they were almost at a height. He was wearing a wine colored shirt that set off his pale complexion nicely. There was a star of David nestled in his open collar, just the small glint of it. 

 

„You look really good,“ Lis told him nonsensically. „Let’s have two more, then.“ 

 

The bartender, a bald woman with large hoop earrings, gave them more Tequila with a quirked eyebrow. Elio downed his without a complaint, though he grimaced and stuck out his tongue after biting down on his lime slice. Lis burst out laughing at that, feeling off track and decidedly wasted, all of a sudden. She couldn’t even hold her alcohol anymore. 

 

„So,“ Elio said, long fingers fidgeting with the lime peel, eyes raking up and down her stooped form. „I take it you’re not pregnant anymore?“ 

 

„Oh, no, I’m still pregnant. Right now, I mean. I won’t be… from next Thursday onwards.“ 

 

„But,“ Elio was openly staring at her, brows crinkled in earnest confusion. 

 

„Yeah, acceptance hasn’t exactly sunk in with our Oliver.“ 

 

Elio averted his gaze, before darting a few more looks at her, skittish and full of interest all at once. „Can you order a limoncello for me?“ 

 

„They don’t really card here, but yeah, I guess.“ Lis waved over the barkeeper, before turning to Elio again, feeling dizzy with the movement. „You look all of sixteen right now. I’d be surprised if they had limoncello here, though, fair warning.“ 

 

The bar had Maraschino, which they both ordered. Lis ended up seated away from her group of friends with her left arm pressed against Elio Perlman’s bony side, talking drunken nonsense into his ear. He was a surprisingly good sport about it, seeing as she had all but screamed at him at their last meeting. They took turns describing the taste of different drinks to one another, which once again was surprisingly entertaining. 

 

„Do you smoke?“ 

 

„Depends on what you have.“ 

 

So they went outside and shared a blunt between them, the frozen air fogging up in tiny puffs with every word exchanged. The calmness that spread through her felt strangely natural, as did the sight of Elio’s delicate profile, the strong slope of his nose, the angle of his eyebrows. She could tell why Oliver had fallen so hard. Truly, it was no hardship to see beauty in the boy. 

 

„I really hated you for a while, you know. But it got too exhausting, and my music was no good with only anger to carry it. Now I’m mostly okay, I suppose.“ 

 

They regarded each other with heavy lids, noses turning red with the bite of frost. Then Lis tugged him in, fitting his lanky frame against her chest and nosing her way under his chin. She sucked on the stump of her blunt, discarding it and breathing out the last dregs of smoke while the first snow of 1984 made its way towards the pavement they shared. 

 

 

*

 

 

She didn’t see Elio again after that night, and didn’t attempt to contact him. She went and had her abortion, a short procedure which she slept off for a weekend. In between, she woke up and cried buckets, the relief making her both light headed and weary. She didn’t go home for Hanukkah, and didn’t bother to ask Oliver whether he was going or not. 

 

She wrote him a letter in between her weeping and sleeping sessions, crossing out words and sentences at random, loving the scratch her pen made against the clean slate of paper. Maybe Pauline had a point after all. 

 

— _What I can’t for the life of me stand is the way you yearn for their approval. So you are_ ~~ _gay_ _queer_~~ _gay and in love with a_ ~~ _child boy_~~ _younger man. He makes you happier than I ever have, I dare say, ~~and~~_ ~~ _you come moping_~~

 

 _Of course I had an abortion,_ ~~_what did you think was going to happen?_ ~~ _Would you be with me just for the child? We would be_ _miserable_

 

~~_a joke_ ~~

 

~~_we already are_ ~~

 

 _Your parents aren’t going to approve, no matter what. I’m not playing house with you, ~~not now,~~_ ~~_not ever_ ~~ _. We are both more than that._

 

 _We used to be so much_ —-

 

 

*

 

 

December was her month of recovery, mostly. 

 

She ignored the seasonal cheer, the Christmas merchandise and incessant carol singing that went on in the neighborhood. She had rarely felt more Jewish than that particular winter. A friend of a friend asked her out to dinner. She graciously accepted and went home with him after a rather mediocre Italian meal. It felt like a giant step to take, starting from nothing but scratch. 

 

They inevitably met at a shared friend’s dinner party, an occasion that Lis had almost entirely forgotten about until the last minute. It didn’t occur to her that Oliver would be there too until he was standing smack in the middle of Susan’s stylish living room, holding a flute of champagne, clean shaven and gorgeous as ever. 

 

„Thank you for your letter,“ he said, breaking the ice with the proverbial hammer. She laughed, he smiled, and they settled down on the far corner of the sofa, talking quietly in complete disregard of the other guests they were supposed to be mingling with. 

 

„So, I went home for the Latkes,“ Oliver said, a casual arm slung around her waist. „And I told my parents that we aren’t getting married in the spring.“ 

 

„Were the Latkes any good? My mother makes them better.“

 

„Nonsense, that’s never been true.“ 

 

„How did they take it?“

 

„They already guessed most of it, to be honest. Asked whether I was seeing someone new. How you are holding up.“ 

 

„I saw Elio last month,“ Lis said, the words rushing out of her. The impact of them almost scared her: Oliver’s face went slack and then tightened up all at once, his brow furrowing. As if he didn’t know whether to smile or to weep. „We had a few drinks together, shared a blunt, the usual.“ 

 

„He’s eighteen,“ Oliver pointed out, openly scandalized. 

 

„Yeah, so? Listen, you know I love you.“ She shushed him when he made to speak, twining their fingers together. „It never used to be a problem, seeing other people. I only just went on a truly uninspiring date with _John_.“ They shared a mischievous look before she carried on: „I don’t want the make-pretend, or the, the, _imposed_ monogamy. We don’t do monogamy, we never have.“ 

 

„It scares me,“ he said after a while, watching the other guests having at the canapés. „How young he is.“ 

 

„You aren’t scared off by his age. Come on, Oliver, you know better than that.“ 

 

„Seriously, it’s part of it. But I’m also scared by how _big_ everything feels to me.“ 

 

It smarted to hear, but it was the truth. Lis carried the ache all the way home and kept it throughout the holidays. Her parents were subdued and spoke in hushed tones, though they lightened up when various cousins and their offspring came to visit. She drove to Oliver’s parents place three days before New Years, and they fell asleep in his childhood bed mostly sober, curled around each other. 

 

 

*

 

 

She walked in on them in the first week of January, using the spare keys that were still hers to get into Oliver’s apartment. It took her ten seconds to realize what was going on, letting herself out again, silent as a mouse. 

 

She couldn’t shake the imagery, though, the brief glimpse she had gotten of the two of them entwined on the couch. Oliver had been thrusting away, an almost familiar sight made strange by the outside perspective. Elio had his bony ankles crossed against Oliver’s back, encasing him in the circle of his slender legs. They had been kissing like drowning men, sucking each other in, all tongues and lips and teeth. 

 

She imagined them grinding against each other, breathless with exertion and love, eyes wide open to take in everything. She mentioned it a few days later while having dinner with Oliver, sharing a greek salad with feta Cheese and pickled olives, both determined to live healthy for the time being, after ending the last year mostly drunk and high. 

 

„It’s fine, it’s fine. No really, Ollie. You guys looked good together.“ 

 

„Are you serious right now?“ 

 

„Are you?“ 

 

They made out in his bed afterwards and he ate her out, sucking at her clit until she was shaking with it, crying tears of elation. She watched, body lax, while he brought himself to climax with quick, loose movements. 

 

„What does Elio think of this?“ She asked him just before they drifted into the lands of blissful sleep. „This arrangement.“ 

 

„I’ll have to ask him,“ Oliver said, sounding more awake than he should have. 

 

 

*

 

 

The beginning of February 1985 was a stormy one, with constant snowfall and frequent breakdowns of public transportation. Lis was over at Oliver’s, cuddled up in one of his large sweaters in the kitchen, making herself herbal tea when Elio stumbled in, frozen stiff and cursing in French while taking off his gloves and rubbing at his reddened hands. 

 

His eyes grew large as saucers when he spotted Lis in her casual getup, and she had to bodily stop him from turning and leaving again. „It’s storming, are you out of your damn mind?“ 

 

Elio looked on helplessly until Oliver appeared, gaze drifting between the two of them. „I’ll draw you a hot bath, how does that sound?“ 

 

So Elio took his bath while Lis and Oliver boiled some rice and chopped onions for sauce. The three of them had dinner, making conversation about Greek philosophy exams, cell structures and the technical irregularities of Chopin’s Preludes, No. 18 to be precise. Outside, the wind howled an unholy inferno.

 

„I know it’s a selfish thing of me to ask,“ Oliver said suddenly, after they were done washing up and wiping down the table. Lis turned and looked at them, Oliver tall and broad and unsure, Elio slight and bony, with a guarded expression upon his face. Their gazes held full conversations that Lis was no part of. Then, finally, Elio nodded and turned to use the bathroom. 

 

„I can go,“ Lis told him quietly. She didn’t live far away, and at one point the wind had eased off a little. „I don’t mind, I’m not joking, Oliver.“ 

 

He looked pained, for a second, before closing her into one of his bear hugs, kissing the top of her head. „You would do that for me?“ She breathed in his musky scent, felt the hairs on his chest tickle her cheek, before pulling away and getting herself dressed in all the layers she had previously peeled off. 

 

„Where did Lis go?“ She heard Elio ask, and her heart swelled with sudden affection. In her head she replayed her favorite section of Liszt’s _Liebestraum_ , a more fitting tune than any other. She turned and stole a glance at the two of them, the love of her life and the love of his. Oliver had bent down to mumble in his ear, while the boy rose to the tip of his toes, hands fisted in the shirt Oliver was wearing. 

 

She brushed all the tears out of her eyes before opening the door, relishing the biting cold. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
